


The Name of the Nightingale

by medaljonki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medaljonki/pseuds/medaljonki
Summary: Beren wonders about the identity of the woman he's met in the forest.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel
Kudos: 5





	The Name of the Nightingale

Beren watched the sun set through the branches of the beech trees. He shifted and sighed. The dark would come before her, and he would have to take cover. The marchwardens came this way at night.

Walking through the thickets, Beren was aware of every stick that snapped, every leaf that rustled under his worn boots, knowing how easy it would be for the Elves to hear him. He feared their arrows, the quick death they would bring. Mostly, he feared he would never see her again.

A steady trickle of water told Beren he was near a brook. He stopped there to take a drink and came upon a herd of deer. They eyed him curiously.

'Greetings, friends,' Beren said smiling. 'The hunters have already come and gone. No need to worry.'

He bent over the brook, cupped his hands, filled them with water. After a few good mouthfuls, Beren moved on. It was growing steadily darker, and the wind had picked up. He shivered, pulling his cloak closer. He would go downhill here. Below there was a good bed of a moss in a close grove. Perhaps, the Elves knew of it, but he had to sleep.

When he made it to the grove, he ate the remainder of the blackberries he had gathered that afternoon. He laid himself out on the moss and listened to the crickets. The moon was peering out now, a slim crescent. In the distance, a song was starting up, an Elven song. _Her_ song.

'Tinúviel,' he whispered. He started to his feet, looking this way and that. He heard her voice parallel to him, moving north. He broke into a run.

'Tinúviel!' he called. The song stopped. He did not hear her, but he knew she was making her quiet way towards him. Within seconds, her hand was clasped in his, her face flushed from running.

'Beren,' she said.

Beren drew her to him. Her warm lips pressed against his, and he felt heat seep into his body.

'How was your day?' Tinúviel said. She was picking up a basket from where she had laid it aside on the ground. She opened it and the smell of fresh baked bread and spiced vegetables wafted into the air. She laid a silk coverlet on the ground, and they sat down.

'Lonely,' Beren said. 'Though I have grown spoilt by your company I suppose. How was yours?'

'Good,' Tinúviel said, dishing the food onto silver plates. 'I spent the morning with my embroidery, and then I listened to a ballad in the dining hall over dinner, but it was one I had heard many times before, and the minstrel was not Daeron. You know how I'm partial to Daeron, and then there was a party in the afternoon. I had to help host it, and it ran late, so that's why I didn't come earlier.'

'It must have been splendid if you were hosting,' Beren said with laugh. 'Tell me what did the ladies wear?'

'It's sure to bore you.' Tinúviel poured two goblets of wine and handed one to him.

'Nothing you say could bore me.' Beren took the goblet and sipped. It held a rich wine, a hundred years old at least. He bit into a piece of bread. It was so soft it melted in his mouth.

'Well,' Tinúviel said, 'Lady Fainauriel wore a gown that was burning red and purest white, while Lady Melda wore a dress of deep blue touched with sapphires, the maiden Lidariel wore silver and her sister Eleniel wore gold, and Lady Galadriel wore green velvet—'

'What did the queen wear?' Beren interrupted. He did not know of these other ladies, but he had heard of the Queen. Melian was one of the divine, or at least that is what he had heard. It was her power that kept the forests of Doriath safe from attack, if this indeed was Doriath. He had heard that there were barriers to keep mortals out, and yet he was here.

'She wore black, as always,' Tinúviel said.

'Black? Why black?' Beren wiped wine from his lips with the back of his hand.

'Why not? It suits her.'

'Maybe,' Beren said, 'but it seems an odd color for an enemy of the dark lord.'

Tinúviel flinched. "I am sorry that you think that way." Her voice had become suddenly cold. "But she has just has much right to pick her wardrobe as anyone else. She's worn the color for ages, and she loves the shadows of twilight, as do I. You and I, we meet at night, in the dark, but that does not mean we are in the wrong."

'And in secret," Beren said. 'We also meet in secret. Everything about you is a secret, isn't it? I wonder if you even have a real name. Maybe you are just an illusion Sauron has sent to torment me.'

'Do I torment you?' Tinúviel did not look at him but at the thick layer of pine needles that decked the forest floor. The corners of her lips drooped.

'No,' Beren said. 'I'm sorry. Only if you did not exist I couldn't bear it, and Sauron's deceptions are so believable. He tricked a man into thinking he saw his wife. It's hard for me to trust anyone. I've been an outlaw so long.'

Tinúviel was silent, her arms folded across her chest, a barrier to her heart.

'I'm sorry,' Beren said again. 'I should have not spoken so harshly. I am a fool.'

He reached out and touched her arm. She smiled. She had the same shy look on her face as the day he had met her.

'I love you,' she said. 'I shall always love you—even if you are a fool.'

'How can you be sure of that?' Beren said. 'Your years are far longer than mine. Someday I shall die, and you shall forget me. You'll go back to your flute playing Daeron while my body rots away.'

'No,' Tinúviel said. 'You misunderstand. There is no going back for me. Our fates are intertwined.'

She took his hand and squeezed it.

'So, you say,' Beren said. 'But you will not even give me your name.'

'Does it matter?'

'I have given you mine.'

'Beren son of Barahir, a fine name, what if I have not one to match?'

'If you were the daughter of a pig farmer,' Beren said, 'I'd still marry you.'

'And if my name overshadowed yours?' she said. 'Would you love me then?'

'Until the day I died,' Beren said. But he pulled his hand away from hers.

She looked up at the sky. 'Are not the stars beautiful? Elbereth smiles on us tonight.'

Beren looked up. The first stars of evening twinkled above, already bright against the violet blue.

'She smiles on everyone then," Beren said. 'She sees the vileness in the world, and she still smiles.'

'Again you prove the fool,' Tinúviel said. 'Elbereth hears everything in the world. It is Manwë who sees.'

'Hears then,' Beren said. 'Hears the screams of the tortured and the damned and does nothing.'

'She gives us light,' Tinúviel said. 'She gives us hope.'

'Have you ever been to lands beyond your country's border?' Beren said. 'Have you seen the misery and the filth? Why are we given hope when all goes wrong?'

'I have never walked past our border,' Tinúviel said. 'So, I am ignorant of your sorrows and terrors, but if they are yours then they shall be mine.'

'Do not say that,' Beren said quickly. He could not imagine such a beautiful creature surviving the cruelty of the wilderness. 'I'm talking nonsense. The days are straining that is all. You should not worry about such things.'

'I am not a child, Beren son of Barahir,' Tinúviel said, 'I have lived hundreds of summers and winters in Middle-earth. I can bear pain.'

'I wouldn't want you to.'

'But I want to know you.' Tinuviel traced Beren's face with her delicate fingers. 'I want to be part of your life, be it sad or merry.'

She pressed her lips against his.

'I could not doom you to my life,' Beren said, pulling back.

The stars seemed dimmer now. Clouds were crowding in.

'Then why do you wait for me? Why did you call for me in your despair?'

'I thought you were a dream, a mad, beautiful fancy.'

'And as I am real you do not want me.'

'I do want you,' Beren said. 'But I am afraid of it, this wanting. If I were to leave you now, I wouldn't be free. Your memory would haunt me to the grave. You have stolen my heart, enchantress.'

'And again,' Tinúviel said, 'I'm at fault. I've bewitched you, you say, but you have done the same to me. And I shall be the longer captive. For you shall die, but my years are long, and after you they would be endless and filled with grief. Your memory would drive me to madness. I would relive each moment of our meeting until eternity, neglecting the world around me.'

'What is your name?'

She looked at him and heaved a sigh. 'Promise to stay with me the night at least.'

'I promise,' Beren said, taking her hand. His heart was beating hard in his chest. This could be the ambush. She could be Sauron. Wolves could be waiting in the woods, drooling for his flesh. Orcs could be hiding in the trees. This whole courtship could have just been a way for the enemy to break his heart along with his body.

At the same time, there was that ever present, half-painful hope that she might be real, a woman smiling at him out of love not cruelty.

Tinúviel stared him straight in the eye. 'I am called Lúthien, and I'm the daughter of Thingol, king of this realm.'

Beren started. 'You are Thingol's daughter? Thingol of Doriath?'

'Yes,' Tinúviel said.

Beren said nothing, just stared ahead unblinking. Thingol was the Elven king who stayed away from the battles. He had only sent two warriors to fight. No, not even them. Mablung and Beleg had gone on their own accord. Thingol looked out only for his own people. Everyone else was below his regard. Thingol was a weakling, who let others fight Morgoth and die and who turned his back on the few allies he had. Thingol the craven had been the subject of many a joke in the camp of Barahir. Beren remembered well Thingol's hatred of Men and Dwarves, and yet here was Thingol's daughter, kneeling next to him, her grey eyes wide and hopeful. How could this be? Was he dreaming? Had he gone mad?

'I'm not an illusion,' Tinúviel said. 'I promise that.'

'You're Thingol's daughter,' Beren said.

'Yes,' Tinúviel said, 'that I am.'

Beren still could believe it. He had thought her an Elf of Doriath. Nobility he had also suspected, but he had never dreamed that the woman he had lain beside was Thingol's child.

'Aren't you afraid that your father will be angry at you for even talking with me?'

Tinúviel's cheeks burnt red. 'I'm not afraid of my father. Though I was sort of afraid you might be. He can be a little intimidating. You will stay, won't you? I couldn't bear if you went away.'

She gazed at him imploringly. Beren shook his head and smiled. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her breasts up against his body, breathing the sweet, flowery scent of her hair. Whatever came next did not matter. He would treasure the present as long as he could.

'Of course, I'll stay,' Beren said, 'I love you, Lúthien Tinúviel.'


End file.
